I was asked to be maid of honour.                                        The anxiety built over the year
as we shopped for dresses
and attended rehearsals.

But I pushed myself for you.
It felt like a blessing —
for someone as awkward as me
to be chosen for such a role.

The big day arrived.
I was at your house early,
bright and ready.

Then you said it.
“You are no longer maid of honour.                                   You’re just a bridesmaid.”

Shattered.

I kept the smile on my face.
I couldn’t ruin your day.

Wounded,
I sat on the kitchen chair
and accepted the change.

Everyone around me was excited —
rushing, laughing, talking loudly.
It was my turn for my hair.

Tug. Tickle. Poke.
Squirt. Spray. Done.

Like being a doll
with no control.

Inside, I was crying.           Scared.
Alone.
Broken.

Outside, I was smiling and polite.                                     Excited.
Communicative.
Happy.

My turn for makeup.

The artist’s breath whooshed across my face —
too loud.
Her fingers too close,
millimetres from my eyes.
I could feel her body heat.

I froze.
Stiff.
Waiting for it to end.

The day was beautiful.
I kept the smile for you.
I did everything expected of me.

You didn’t know I was hurting.
No one knew I was struggling.

I did it for you.

At home I sighed.
I cried.

What is wrong with me?
Why can’t I be normal?

You left for your honeymoon the next day.
A friend of yours came to collect my dress and shoes.

I couldn’t pretend anymore.
I had no smile left.

Broken.

I never heard from you again
after your wedding day.

Years turned into a decade.
Still nothing.

Why does no one like me?
What did I do wrong?

—Frost ❄️

I wrote this to reflect on a deeply painful experience from before my late diagnosis of level 2 autism and ADHD-C.
At the time I didn’t know I was masking — I just believed something was wrong with me.
Now I know I was doing my best to survive.

Reflection
I’m sharing this now because I finally have language for what was happening then. This wasn’t weakness, drama, or oversensitivity — it was a nervous system under strain, masking to survive in a world that didn’t know how to read it. I didn’t fail that day. My body did exactly what it needed to do to get me through. Writing this is not about blame or bitterness; it’s about truth, visibility, and naming experiences that so often go unnoticed. If you recognise yourself here, you’re not broken — and you never were.